


The Hunt

by osunism



Series: Get Us There [3]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Exhibitionism, F/M, Halamshiral, Name-Calling, Oral Sex, Pet Names, Semi-Public Sex, Shameless Smut, Teasing, The Winter Palace (Dragon Age)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-09
Updated: 2015-04-09
Packaged: 2018-03-22 00:09:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3708139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/osunism/pseuds/osunism
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Samson, I’m working.” She finally said. Samson grinned, tapping the underside of one of her breasts just for the pleasure of watching it bounce. “So am I, girl, but I never could get the hang of separating business and pleasure.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wine

**Author's Note:**

> This smut exploded on Tumblr today and I just...I'm not even sorry. This is my new favorite trash ship.

           The wily bitch. She had no right to be standing there, chatting it up with Orlesian fluff, looking like  _that_.

           Samson tossed back another glass of wine, swishing it about in his mouth and sucking his teeth rudely, much to the disgust of some of the masked individuals near his corner. He didn’t even bother to hide it.

           “Piss off.” He said curtly, “Or don’t. I don’t care.”

           Gasps ensued and Samson didn’t hide that wolfish grin, as several layered-cake dresses flounced off to find more polite company. It wasn’t his fault, he’d say later, that Orlesians were so hellbent on deluding themselves into thinking everyone would buy into their bullshit.

           Hadiza had her back to him, but her head was turned, talking to one of the chevaliers beside her about Maker knew what. Her back was out, the dress cut to expose miles of flawless, dark brown skin. There was a slight shimmer on her skin from the cosmetic powder that had been dusted on her. He drew a deep breath through his nose as his eyes tracked lower where the dress suddenly reappeared, just below those dimples in her lower back.

           Maker he was half-hard just watching her.

           Every shift of her body, the muscles slid languidly beneath her skin, the light caught the dozens of tiny diamonds sewn into her dress, and her ass sat like moon in the damn thing. Samson had never claimed to be an ass man, but he never discriminated either. He enjoyed all the parts he could get his hands and mouth on.

           But the Maker had truly done some  _work_ when He crafted Hadiza’s ass.

           He had to get her alone, somehow. Had to lure her to some dark corner so he could whisper all the filthy things he planned to do to her, maybe give her a precursor to just what seeing her ass sitting in that damned dress did to him.

           She laughed.

           He loved that laugh. He heard it often enough in bed when he forsook civility and tossed her legs over his shoulders. He also loved interrupting that laugh and seeing her lips shape unintelligible words and noises.

           He was thinking about her mouth. Shit.

           Still, it was a lovely mouth. He knew this detail all too well, and thinking about her lips wrapped around his cock…maybe in her overpriced scandalous dress, that was a thought he could entertain for a few hours.

           Or however the fuck long this party was supposed to go on for.

           Hadiza turned, caught his gaze, snagged, and bit her lip briefly. So she could see the heat, could see the wolf in him coming out, jaws ready to close on her throat. He caught a glimpse of the curve of her breast, licked his lips, and reached for more wine.


	2. Vestibule

           How they’d gotten away with it, he’d never know.

           They’d gone back to the main vestibule, through the side door, and down the steps leading to the servant’s entrance. There, with no one to see them, he pulled her behind that gaudy statue and shoved her against the wall.

           “Sams—“ He covered her mouth with his hand, saw the heat in her molten silver eyes and smirked. With his other hand, he gently took the bodice of her dress and peeled it down, feeling his cock twitch as her breasts bounced free, full and heavy. The tailor had placed a sticky material over her nipples to keep them from showing up in her dress. Samson peeled one away, saw her eyes go wide as he lowered his head to her breast, and wrapped his lips around it.

           A small, pleasured sound leaked from his restraining hand, and he grinned around the puffy bud, rolling it between his teeth gently, teasing for weak points with the tip of his tongue.

           Hadiza barely made a sound, but her breathing was labored and she was snorting through her nose. Good girl.

           He pulled away from her breast, giving it a careless squeeze. For a moment, when he stepped back, he took her in. Her dress was bunched beneath her breasts, her nipples bare, her eyes glassy, and he knew without having to check that her cunt was a waterfall of  _guilt_.

           “Samson, I’m working.” She finally said. Samson grinned, tapping the underside of one of her breasts just for the pleasure of watching it bounce.

           “So am I, girl, but I never could get the hang of separating business and pleasure.” He shrugged, then deftly replaced the sticky material over her nipple, lifting the bodice to cover her breasts and smoothing out her dress. As she made a move to walk away after composing herself, she bit her lip against a squeal as he pinched her bottom.

           “Let me know when you’re done playing, princess,” he told her, “that assassin won’t wait forever.”


	3. Lace

           She came back from another fruitless search for clues, and Samson was waiting for her on one of the balconies.

           “Find anything, princess?” He asked, grinning at her. Hadiza made a terse sound of agitation.

           “Just pointless gossip,” she muttered, “not even good gossip either. I don’t know who half these people are.” Samson took her hand, lead her behind one of the large pillars at the end of the breezeway. No one would see them immediately, but their ears might be fucking working overtime.

           “Samson, you’re incorrigible.” Hadiza murmured in the dark, as he knelt in front of her, grasping the hem of her dress.

           “Like you give a shit,” he said, “you’ve been wet all night it’s a wonder half these fucking nobles haven’t come sniffing after you yet.”

           He heard Hadiza swallow hard. Dangerously, almost possessively, Samson’s gaze shot up to her, even while he shoved her skirts up, revealing the most scandalous pair of smalls he’d seen in some time.

           “ _Have_ they been sniffing, princess?” He asked dangerously, lifting one of her legs to prop it on his shoulder. Hadiza shook her head, murmured a tremulous  _no_.

           “Shame,” Samson leaned in, traced the lace edge of her smalls, avoiding the sopping wetness in the center, “they have no idea what they’re missin’.”

           He teased her through the cloth, keeping the tip of his tongue light, but never breaking contact. He could feel the swell of her clit when he pressed hard enough, flicking back and forth along it just to hear her gasps.

           “Keep it down, princess,” he muttered, “wouldn’t want someone to hear you.” He was lying and they both knew it. If he were a lesser man (and most would argue that he was), he’d have fucked her right there in the ballroom. The thought had crossed his mind when he watched her descend the staircase in that slow, seductive gait, hands on her hips, swaying like a self-aware serpent, damn her.

           He pushed her smalls aside, and her scent cloyed his senses, making him lick his lips hungrily. She flowed freely, like milk and honey, and he caught the flow on his tongue, swiping from the bottom of her slit to the top of her throbbing clit.

           “S-Samson…!” She gasped, and he heard her hands clap over her mouth, felt her tremble.

           “Mmmph.” Was his response as his mouth was full of her cunt, his tongue trying to map the landscape, but getting hung up on her clit because Maker’s balls the  _noise_ she made. It was seeping through her clutched fingers, and her eyes were rolling back and she was going to fall over any minute if he didn’t stop.

           He pulled away, gently putting her smalls back into place. He lowered her skirts and rose to his feet, lips and chin shining in the silvery moonlight. He wished he could lap it all up, but he wiped his mouth instead.

           “Orlais makes you wetter than ever, princess,” he muttered, “I thought you didn’t care for the Game.”

           “I don’t.” Hadiza breathed, “I just…Maker. Samson I can’t work like this.”

           Samson grinned.

           “The sooner you finish, the sooner I fuck you.” He promised. He didn’t even try to hide how smug he was when she stalked off, vigorous and determined.


	4. Moonlight

          He wasn’t expecting her to do the Duchess right there on the dance floor.

           Hadiza wasn’t a cold-hearted serpent, despite the way she looked like she ate men’s hearts for breakfast, but he wasn’t expecting her to kill the Duchess right after the plot was exposed. Watching the ice engulf the woman and Hadiza flourishing her hands to shatter the frozen corpse was…heady.

           Violence curled around Hadiza like a perfume, but when she came back from her meeting with the Duke, Briala, and Celene, the look on her face told him everything he needed to know. He found her on the balcony, leaned over, glaring at the stars.

           “They don’t talk much, these Orlesians,” Samson said as he joined her, “bunch of words but no meanings. All bullshit.”

           Hadiza made a grunt of agreement, and then gasped when he took her by the arm, pulling her to him.

           “You did good tonight, princess,” he murmured against her mouth, “I’m proud of you.”

           “Get me out of here, then.” She responded without missing a beat. For a moment he was content to kiss her, to drown under her mouth, but the squirming of her body was too much and with a snarl he stalked back inside, with her in tow.

           Her room was spacious, and he didn’t care for the scandalized looks of the servants they passed in the quieter halls of the guest wing. When they reached her room, he shoved her inside and shut the door behind them. He didn’t lock it because for some reason he relished the thought of someone being stupid enough to come in while he had the Inquisitor splayed open as he planned to.

           “No,” he said when Hadiza began taking off her dress, her cleavage threatening to overflow the bodice, “keep it on, and come here.”

           Hadiza smiled, pulling her dress back up before sauntering toward him. Not content to wait for her to finish seducing him thoroughly, he snatched her by the waist, turned, and shoved her back against the door.

           “You know,” he said, tracing the shape of her mouth with his thumb, “I’ve been thinking about this mouth all fuckin’ night, princess.” He suppressed a hiss when she dropped a kiss to his thumb.

           “Have you really?” She asked wryly. Samson licked his lips.

           “Oh yeah,” he agreed, “this mouth. This pretty little rose petal mouth. All stained red for the ball. How much of that red can you leave on my cock, sweetling?”

           At Hadiza’s shaky inhale, he had his answer.

           When she sank to her knees, the only sound was a whisper of the delicate fabric of her dress, the clinking of the tiny diamonds, the sound of her fumbling with his breeches. She was just as eager to have him as he was to be in her, with her red-stained lips, and those star-thieved eyes.

           The first touch of her lips was gentle, tentative, then she flowed over the rest of him, her fingers gripping the base of his cock while those red lips slid down to meet her now pumping fist.

           Samson’s head tipped back and he let out a guttural sound, his hand coming to rest gently on her head. Whoever passed by her door would hear her. Hadiza was absolutely filthy during tis act, sucking wetly, loudly, pulling away to spit on the crown just how he liked it. She was  _beautiful_. This woman who had Southern Thedas by the balls, who had swayed monarchs into submission, who killed on the dance floor, but had no trouble getting on her knees for him.

           “Fuck,” he growled when he felt himself bump the back of her throat, “gonna make me… _shit_.” Hadiza dropped her neck, relaxing, and her throat opened up and Samson had to brace himself with one hand slammed against the door when he felt his cock slide past the tight entrance to her throat and beyond. She held him there, eyes watering, and then to counter the gagging that should have occurred, she made swallowing motions. Automatically, the tiny muscles of her throat did exactly what she did with her cunt when he was fucking her.

           “Andraste’s flaming tits!” He hissed, pulling back and fisting her hair to shove her head back against the door. His hips pumped, listening to her choke on his cock, hearing the muffled thump of her head hitting the door with each stroke of his hips.

           “Think you can just pull a trick like that and not expect me to fuck your mouth, pretty?” He demanded, “I think you forgot whose whore you are tonight, Inquisitor.”

           He heard her whimper and choke around his cock, heard her nails scrabbling against his leather boots as her hands came up to clutch his thrusting hips, then slipped one hand between his firmly planted legs to cup his heavy balls. She squeezed gently, kneading them.

           “Maker!” He roared, sliding out of her mouth, and hearing her coughing and gasping for breath. He pulled away, his cock gleaming with her saliva, her lips no longer red, but swollen nonetheless. She stared up at him defiantly.

           “Get up.” He said hoarsely. Hadiza climbed to her feet. This was part of the game they played.

           “Take it off,” he ordered, indicating the scandalous dress he’d been agonizing about all night, “slowly.”


	5. Window

           Hadiza stripped. Slowly, just like he told her.

           The thing was, he loved seeing her revealed inch by inch. Loved seeing her breasts spill out of that dress, loved how the material peeled off of her like a second skin, only to whisper down her long legs and bunch up at her feet. Daintily, she stepped out of the dress, and Samson allowed his eyes to roam freely. Hadiza was tall, built like a fighter, but softened by the Circle. She had a willowy grace when she moved, and when she wanted to really stoke his fire, she could move like a serpent, all hips.

           “Maker’s fucking breath.” He whispered as he got the rest of his clothes off. The room was dark, save for the moonlight coming through the large window on the other side. Samson thought for a moment what it would be like to take her against the window, her breasts, hands, and face pressed against the cold glass, fogging it with heavy pants and throaty moans, while he rammed into her from behind. He looked around the room. So many damned surfaces to fuck her on, honestly, so many places he could leave her a shuddering, orgasmic mess.

           He needed to do it. He needed to do it now before they left Orlais. It wouldn’t be the same back at Skyhold. No, he needed those snotty nobles to look up and catch glimpse of the Inquisitor getting fucked. He wanted it so badly it burned the blood in his veins, set it to blazing, and made his balls ache. He grabbed Hadiza’s arm, pulling her roughly across the room.

           “Samson, wha—mmph!” He had to shut her up. He didn’t want her words. He wanted her screaming, wanted her begging, panting, moaning, shuddering. Hadiza’s mouth was hot and slick, and he licked into it, trying to breathe her into his lungs. She smelled like a thunderstorm on the horizon, like rain about to fall, and he wanted to wipe it away and replace it with his scent. She was his. Hadiza was his and not one masked pig-fucker in this forsaken country would contest him for her. When he pulled away, he felt like he was drowning. She was panting, the moonlight limning her dark skin in silver.

           “Turn. Around.” He ground out. Hadiza turned, and her eyes were wide with the realization of what he planned to do. Samson muttered an order for her to brace herself and slowly, she planted both of her hands on the cold glass. Below, she could make out the front courtyard and the gardens. People still milled about below them, even after the late hour. Would they see? Maker would they see how she writhed when Samson kicked her legs apart, reached between her spread thighs and stroked her?

           “That’s my girl,” he purred, sliding her clit between his fingers, covering his hand in her essence, “always wet and ready for me. Do you go into a fight like this, princess?” Before Hadiza could clear the fog from her mind to answer, Samson plunged two of his fingers into her, just for the sake of feeling her sheath go tight in surprise.

           “You probably do,” he chuckled darkly, “you and your sister love a good fight. But you’re the one who gets wet for one. That why you argue with me so much?” His fingers were stroking in and out, the heavy silence of the enormous room broken only by the wet sounds of his stroking her, and then he saw her head turn, revealing her lovely profile; her eyes closed, lashes cresting on her cheeks, lips parted. There it was, just like he imagined: the glass fogging with her panting breaths. He withdrew his fingers from her slowly, watching her hips tilt, searching, offering, yearning. With his wet hand, he took hold of his cock, breathing deep as he stroked it, coating himself with her. He was hot and hard like heated iron.

           “Samson…” Her voice was a whisper, a quiet plea. In the darkness of the room, Samson answered her, guiding his cock toward her entrance, teasing the slit apart by stroking the head up and down until she was so wet she was shivering.

           “Say it again,” he growled, the wolfish grin seeping into his voice, “say it again for me, princess.” He continued the idle teasing and Hadiza’s voice shivered out of her mouth unbidden.

           “Samson.” She whimpered and cried out when he plunged into her. The sound of her ass—Maker did he love her ass!—slapping against his hips was so satisfying he wanted to pause and bask in the moment. He couldn’t though, not with Hadiza’s cunt pulsating around his cock like that. He had to fuck her until words were useless, until her nails were scrabbling on the glass, until she was throwing her ass back at him for more.

           His fingers dug into her hips, pulling her back and forth, harder, faster, deeper. He loved to watch himself vanish into her body, loved the slight tug of her cunt’s lips along his cock when he came out, glistening from her slick. Maker, she was  **wet** , there was no way all of this was his doing. He growled at her, hand smoothing up her back, reaching for her hair. Was he angry? Frustrated? Both? It didn’t translate in the way he tugged her head back enough to arch her back. Then he let go, let her sag against the window while he pounded against her, trying to make her squeal.

           She did.

           Then scream.

           That was easy, he found her clit elicited that noise quite well.

           He made her swear and then yelp when he spread both of her cheeks, pressing his thumb against that puckered orifice, massaging it. It gave him the reaction he desired and Hadiza pushed back against him, aggressive, chasing an orgasm he was hellbent on denying her. Not until he’d had his fill, not until Orlais knew the Inquisitor belonged to him.

           As if there were ever any doubt.

           Samson kept going, kept chasing that heady thrill that signified his release, and he felt the first flutters of her orgasm along his shaft, growled at her to come hard for him, growled her name.

           “Let go, princess,” he snarled, “that’s it, let go.” Hadiza’s wail was a continuous note, and Samson didn’t suppress his tight smile when her nails squeaked and scraped along the glass as she came. During the final clenches, Samson let himself come, felt the tension building in the base of his spine until he roared, pulling Hadiza back against him and thrusting deep, trying to plant his seed deep within her. She shivered and whimpered, and Samson noted with pride that the window was smeared with her handprints. Good. The servants would gossip about it come morning.

           When he slipped out of her, he was surprisingly gentle, and caught Hadiza as she nearly toppled on unsteady legs. With an ease of strength, Samson scooped her up, legs and all, and made his way to the unused bed.

           “How are…” Hadiza croaked, “…how are you still walking?” She wondered. Samson grunted.

           “Templar training.” He muttered. Hadiza laughed.

           “They train Templars to fuck their lovers within full view of the Orlesian Imperial Court?” Samson didn’t answer, but gave her a terse grin, and then laughed when she yelped as he dumped her unceremoniously on the bed.

           “You complainin’?” He asked. Hadiza rolled onto her side.

           “No,” she said gently, “never.” Samson reached down to stroke her cheek, then lower to her mouth. He seemed to be on the verge of saying something, but instead, he just let out a small laugh, and made his way to the washroom.

           In the morning, after the Inquisition departed, all that was on the servants lips was how many times the Inquisitor and her lover had stolen off to some dark corner of the palace.

           They speculated six orgasms in one night, but Samson might have corrected them and told them to add two more. After all, the bed still needed use even after the window incident.


End file.
